Snow Apples by Mary Razzell Page B

brown wool with box pleats, and the yellow cardigan had small brass buttons. Nels had given me an enamel pin shaped like a leaf and colored the reds and browns of autumn. It was perfect with the sweater.
    I put Vaseline on the ends of my eyelashes. My hair had grown out of the feather-cut. Nels said he liked long hair, and already it was down to my shoulders.
    Four or five times I thought I heard Nels’ truck, but I was always disappointed.
    My mother, who was polishing the cook stove with acrumpled newspaper, was still questioning me about Dad and Vancouver. She’d been asking the same things since I got home.
    â€œTell me, Sheila,” she said, as if it had just occurred to her. “Did your father say what he was doing that he couldn’t even take you out for dinner?”
    â€œNo, Mom. I already told you everything.” Which wasn’t quite true. I’d left out the part about him being all dressed up, nervous and in a hurry.
    â€œDo you think,” she said, trying to sound offhand, “that he has another woman?”
    â€œMom, I don’t know!”
    But my mother wouldn’t let it drop. She worried away, returning to it again and again. It was the same way that our dog, Pep, shook an old sweater, as if it were prey.
    Was that a car stopping? I looked out the window. It had begun to rain lightly and was already dark. I saw a car’s headlights on the side of the road, shining through the trees.
    I found my new lipstick, Tangee Medium Red, and put it on carefully. There were only a few drops of Evening in Paris left. I pressed them on my temples, in the hollow of my throat.
    â€œDo you know where my jacket is, Mom?” I rushed around. “Nels and I are going to the dance. I’ll be home about twelve.” I paused at the back door. “Mom, maybe Dad had some business of some kind. Something to do with that job he wants in the interior.”
    â€œI doubt it. Unless it was monkey business.” She rattledthe grate of the stove, pulled out the drawer of ashes roughly. But I was already halfway out the door.
    When I got to the top of the road, I was out of breath. I made myself slow down. The truck was like a dark, crouched animal behind the rain-misted headlights.
    Nels held the door of the truck open.
    â€œI bet you thought I wasn’t coming,” he grinned.
    â€œI didn’t know,” I answered. Was he making fun of me?
    â€œCome on, don’t stand there, get in.” He waited until I’d closed the door. Then, suddenly serious, he asked, “You want to talk about it now or later?”
    â€œNow, I guess.”
    We drove up the back road and pulled off to the side. The leaves were almost gone from the trees, and bare branches scraped at the roof of the truck. A wind gusted, bringing squalls of rain that lashed at the windshield.
    â€œIt looks like a Squamish. Wonder if there are any dead trees around?” I rolled down the window, stuck my head out to look, relieved to be doing something. “None,” I reported, “but it is a Squamish.”
    The wind made my eyes sting. Closing the window, I sat back again and waited tensely for Nels to begin.
    He was leaning against his door, and I did the same on my side so that we faced each other. He seemed to be in a good mood. His mouth was relaxed, his hands loose. There was a faint smell of whiskey in the truck.
    â€œI took Gwen what’s-her-name home on Thursday night.”
    â€œHall. Gwen Hall,” I supplied quickly. “Yeah, well, I guess so. And I kissed her goodnight.” He waited, as if I was supposed to say something, but I didn’t.
    â€œWanted to see what it was like, being with another girl. Maybe I was missing something.” He looked at me. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t...” His voice trailed off, then came strongly. “She’s okay, but she isn’t you.”
    I didn’t know what to say. I felt relieved, but I wanted to stay